by Mary Wine
She blinked, thinking she’d imagined it. No, there was a plop as another fish swam too close to where the rocks gave way, and she realized someone had piled up rocks to make a dam of sorts.
Of course!
It made sense. She looked around, making sure no one was about before she pulled her smock over her head. Without a net or basket at hand, the cloth was all she had. Once wet, it would bring her even more suffering, but if sacrificing her comfort helped her fill her belly, she would take the shivers. She moved into the stream and held the ends of her garment under the water. Her belly twisted with hunger, her mouth beginning to water while she waited. Time seemed to slow down, tormenting her as she tried to maintain her confidence while ignoring how cold the water was around her bare feet.
At last there was another plop, and suddenly there was a fish flopping on the surface of her wet smock. She jumped with surprise, and the fish went sailing right out of her grasp. She whirled around, desperate to catch it. The sun shone off its body as it flailed and fought to buck itself back into the deeper part of the stream. Jane fought just as hard to reach the fish, skinning her knee as she landed next to it and clamped her hands around it.
Victory surged through her when she held it high. She carried it farther onto the bank and then struggled back into her wet smock. The fabric stuck to her body, but she smiled as she retreated into the forest in search of a way to cook her catch.
“Ye do nae have a knife.”
Jane froze, looking up from her fish to see who her company was. She let out a sigh of relief when she realized it was a boy, a rather small one who looked up at her from where he was crouched next to a rabbit snare. His face reflected his disappointment over finding the snare empty. He looked at her fish, longing in his young eyes.
“The fish are too big for me to catch,” he muttered. “Give me that one, and I’ll let ye use me knife when ye get another for yerself.”
He couldn’t have been more than six or seven winters, but it was clear his life was as challenging as hers. He was thin, his face drawn with hunger. He held out his hands for the fish, aiming a smile at her as he tried to bargain.
“I know how to gut it and put it over a fire,” he tempted her.
Fire…
“Can you start a fire?” she asked.
He was wearing only a shirt and a belt that held his knife. His feet were blackened from having no shoes.
“I can get a coal from the house,” he assured her quickly. “But I can nae go home to me ma without something to eat. I am the man of the house now.”
His eyes returned to the fish in her hands. “That’s a fine, big fish, and there are plenty more.”
Trusting him was a risk, but one she had to take unless she planned to eat her fish raw with her teeth. And a fire would warm her and help dry her shift. She hated that she was desperate enough to resort to such behavior. At least Fate was offering her another solution. Yet it would not come without a price. Handing over the fish took a great deal of effort. She watched the way his face lit up.
“I’ll be back,” he promised. “I’m going to give this to me mother and bring back a coal from the hearth like I promised.”
God, she hoped so.
He ran away from her, the fish in his hands, as she fought off tears to see it leaving.
Nonsense, she chided herself. It will be a good bargain.
At least it would be as soon as she caught another fish. Fate seemed to be in the mood to reward her because she watched another fat fish tumble down the rocks while she was getting out of her smock. This time, she was ready when a fish appeared on the fabric, clamping it against her chest and moving out of the water without tossing it into the air. Satisfaction filled her as she clothed herself once more and started to climb back up to where she’d met the boy. The truth was she wanted to catch more, but she had to quell that urge, for doing so would be a waste.
A thin taper of smoke beckoned to her. The sight of the boy leaning over a small pile of sticks made her tremble.
“Mother was very pleased.” He reached out for the fish. “Asked me how I managed it without a fish basket.” He started gutting the fish as he spoke, the fire popping as it caught. “I told her it was on the bank.” He offered her the cleaned fish on a long stick. “I know it’s wrong to lie.”
“Well,” Jane began as she placed the stick over the rocks the boy had used to ring the fire. “I was on the bank with the fish.”
His lips twitched. “Ye are poorer than we are, I think. Ye do nae have even a knife.”
“Yes,” she agreed, warming her fingers over the fire. “My husband gambled while drinking and lost everything.”
The boy watched her for a moment before he nodded. “We made a good bargain.”
“Indeed,” she answered.
He cocked his head to one side. “Are ye English?”
Jane smiled. “Yes.”
“Where are ye going?”
“Home,” she said with less enthusiasm than she might have wished for.
He seemed confused by her response. “But…England is that way.” He pointed behind her with a grubby finger.
Her victory over catching the fish died. “I see.”
He opened his mouth to speak, showing off a gap in the front of his mouth where two teeth were missing. “I did nae think there was anyone with less than us.”
He flashed her a grin before he turned and ran off. The scent of the fish cooking was a comfort but not enough to dispel the gloom from her thoughts. She tried to focus on the warmth from the fire. At last her fingers weren’t frozen and the fish was cooking slowly, promising her relief from her hunger.
Perhaps she was only prolonging her agony.
Well, wasn’t that life, after all? Each day a battle against all the things that might befall her? Perhaps she was in Scotland, in her shift, yet had that truly altered her circumstances?
Not by much.
Her stepmother’s face kept her company as she ate the fish. Alicia was the mother of sons, so Jane’s father had given her full run of the house and his daughters. Jane had thought her life hard then. She stretched out her foot and looked at her bare toes. At least she had had shoes.
It seemed she was being given a lesson in being grateful for what she had. Now, all that remained was to see if she survived the learning process. Alicia had often spoken of the way she managed the house as a kindness because she was making Jane and her sisters strong enough to face life as women. Perhaps there was truth in that sentiment, for somehow Jane had managed to reject Gillanders’s offer. No one came into life with strength; it had to be earned, forged.
Perhaps Alicia was more of a friend than a miser. The very fact that her stepmother had not pampered her seemed to be some sort of gift that Jane had been too ignorant to understand the value of until today. Now when she needed her resolve, Jane discovered it firmly rooted in her because of the way Alicia had insisted she learn to make due and find her own solutions to life’s demands.
Leaving the fire took effort, but the sun was climbing higher, and Jane had ground to cover. Her hands smelled of fish, and the scent gave her quite a bit of satisfaction.
Gillanders could choke on his offer.
And as for Alicia? Well, Jane would thank her just as soon as she made it back to England and her family. Love, it would seem, might be shown in many ways, teaching her to be strong among them. Her stepmother had taught her to be a woman, which, it seemed, was far more important than years of bruised childhood feelings.
* * *
“Laird.”
Another tenant tugged on the corner of his bonnet as he placed his rent on the small table Lachie had brought. The man was a fine secretary, or at least he was learning. Diocail stood beside the table, greeting each tenant. He looked down and pushed two of the silver coins back toward the man.
“Lai
rd?”
“I know what the MacPhersons pay, and Gordons will nae be giving more,” Diocail responded loudly enough for the other men who were waiting to hear. “There will be fairness on Gordon land so long as I am yer laird.”
The tenant was quick to take the coins back, reaching inside his jerkin to push them deep into a pocket. The man smiled and happily knelt to pledge himself to Diocail as laird of the Gordons. Diocail watched as the scowls eased from the faces of those waiting to see him. The level of resentment dissipated as his tenants offered him a grudging respect.
Well, their regard would take time to grow.
Later that night, once the business was finished, Diocail took a moment to sit. His men were roasting a few rabbits that had been given as rent, their conversation scarlet since they were well away from womenfolk.
He chuckled at one tale. The village they were visiting didn’t have an inn, just a rather crude tavern. Many tenants who had come to pay their rent were camped nearby. The scent of their fires mixed as the evening breeze blew through, hinting at winter.
“Get your hands off of me!”
His men went silent, their jovial mood changing in an instant.
There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh and the sharp intake of breath from a female.
“Damned English bitch,” came a sharp reprimand. “Think ye’re too good for the likes of me? We’ll be seeing about that…”
A woman stumbled close enough to the light of the fire for Diocail to see her. Not that it was hard when all she wore was a linen smock splattered with dirt. The firelight shone right through the undergarment. In spite of her indecent condition, she faced off with the man bearing down on her, baring her teeth as she held up a thick stick.
“Try it and die,” she snarled at her attacker.
Diocail watched the way she lifted the branch high, ready to wield it like a club. Her would-be companion stumbled from the thicket she’d been in, staggering just a bit to betray how much whisky he’d had.
“Would ye rather freeze?” he demanded of her as he eyed her stance and weapon. “Why? Ye’re no virgin. A wee tumble is all I’m looking for. I’ll share me supper and fire with ye once ye ease the stiffness of me cock.”
“I am not a whore.”
But she was English. Her accent was as clear as the moon in the sky.
“Ye’re on Gordon land, English bitch.”
“Which makes her my concern,” Diocail interrupted.
The woman had been focused on the man chasing her. She jumped when Diocail spoke, whirling around to look at him. She masked her fear well, tightening her grip on her weapon as she tried to keep both him and her first attacker in her sights.
She had courage, he’d grant her that.
Even if it was foolish at the moment.
“Now why would ye be interfering in me fun?” the man demanded of Diocail. “Caught her sleeping on our land. That makes her a prize. Mine.”
“Yet ye have no’ caught her, and now she is mine.”
Diocail slid between her and the man, glad to see his men had joined him. There was a sound from the woman, muffled as Muir clamped his hand over her mouth.
The man didn’t care for Diocail’s opinion on the matter. His eyes narrowed as he snarled. Diocail reached into his doublet and withdrew a silver piece.
“Let us be agreed.” Diocail shook the coin so that the firelight caught on it. He watched as the man shifted his attention to the money, the glitter of lust in his eyes dying down. “Go find yerself more welcoming company, man.” He tossed the coin toward him.
The man caught the coin, turning it over a few times before holding it in his hand and trying to judge the weight. There was another sound from behind Diocail and then a grunt as one of his men misjudged the tenacity of the female. Whoever he was, there was a squeak from the woman as he applied enough strength to keep her still.
“Aye,” the man in front of Diocail said as he tucked the coin into his sporran. “But I think ye might be regretting paying so much for her. Cold English bitch will nae thank ye.”
He spat on the ground and sent a hard look toward the woman before he turned and left. Diocail waited until the sound of the man’s feet crunching the undergrowth faded before he turned to consider their newest companion.
Niven had his arms wrapped around her, one of his huge hands clapped over her lips. She glared at Diocail as he looked at her.
“Forgive me, mistress,” Diocail stated firmly. “Did ye wish me no’ to interfere then? I rather thought the way ye were threatening to hit him with that branch suggested ye were no’ very keen about accepting his offer. Of course, if I was wrong…”
Some of his men chuckled.
She blinked, clearly thinking the matter through. He watched her relax and shake her head.
“Let her go.”
She stepped away from Niven, casting a nervous look at the other men. Some of them couldn’t keep themselves from appraising her from head to toe. Diocail admitted fighting the urge himself. The fire cast enough light on her to make it plain she was a fetching female beneath her smock.
But she was not a whore, and he’d not gawk at her. No, her courage deserved more respect than that.
True to what he suspected of her, she drew herself up, set her chin, and looked him in the eye as though she stood there with a hundred men at her back to protect her. “You have my sincere gratitude, sir.”
“What are ye doing on me land?” He made his voice as gentle as possible. Now that he was closer, he saw the evidence of Fate turning ugly against her. Her toes were bleeding along with her knee. Her fine porcelain skin and high cheekbones were crisscrossed with tiny scrapes and cuts from the thicket, and there were deep circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.
She was hungry too.
Starving.
He could see the way she fought to lick her lips now that she was close enough to smell the roasting rabbit from their fire.
And courage. She had an abundance of it, which Diocail respected because the only way to cultivate it was to face hardship.
“Who turned ye out in yer shift, lass?” Muir asked as she remained unwilling to share the details of her plight.
She cut Muir a quick glance but returned her attention to Diocail. “Does it truly matter how I came to be here?”
Perhaps asking a question wasn’t very wise. Jane really didn’t know the answer herself. Every inch of her body seemed to hurt, and she was once again so hungry her head was reeling. The scent of the fish was gone from her fingers now, yet she’d found herself sniffing them in some vain attempt to satisfy her empty belly.
Right then, the scent of roasting meat was the only thing she could concentrate on. In some corner of her mind, she realized being distracted was a grave error. The man in front of her was huge. She’d rarely seen his match. He was a mountain of pure muscle with bulky shoulders and wrists she doubted she could close her hand around. He was dressed in a kilt and doublet, but he had the sleeves open and hooked behind his back, his shirtsleeves pushed up to bare his forearms as though he didn’t feel the chill of the night air.
She, on the other hand, was shivering as the cold licked her skin and cut through her smock.
“I suppose it does nae,” he answered her, tilting his head to one side as he contemplated her. He kept his attention on her face, resisting the urge to look down her body. Most of his men didn’t afford her the same respect.
What do you expect, Jane? You are nearly naked.
And starving. But Fate had delivered her here when she least expected it, so she wouldn’t allow herself to crumble beneath the weight of her circumstances.
One dilemma at a time.
“Thank you for your assistance.” She drew in a deep breath and started to walk back toward the thicket.
“Stay where ye are, woman.”
&nb
sp; If she hadn’t realized he was in command of the men before, the tone of his voice would have driven that fact home. He was accustomed to being obeyed. When he turned his head slightly, she caught sight of his bonnet. Three feathers were secured to the side, all of them raised. She’d been in Scotland long enough to know they were the mark of a laird.
“As you have noted, I have naught, so I cannot repay you except with my gratitude.” She spoke evenly and with the poise that living beneath her stepmother’s iron rule had bred. “I have a great deal of ground to cover and must be on my way.”
“Where are ye going like that?” the man next to her demanded.
A quick look toward him, and she noticed that one of his feathers was raised. That made him a captain of some sort.
“Back to England and my father’s house,” she answered, trying not to sound as defeated by that prospect as she felt. There was no alternative, so no use dreading what had to be. “Since I am widowed.”
The men ringing her suddenly nodded, some muttering that her situation made sense. Their stances eased now that they could understand her appearance. The harsh truth was that more than one woman had been turned out in her shift when her husband was no longer alive to protect her from his family. Such was the fate of many a bride who wed against the wishes of the groom’s family. Without children or contract or powerful relatives, everything she had might be claimed as dowry and kept while she was discarded.
Tossed into the gutter…
She started to step around the man in front of her, and he shook his head. “I told ye to stay where ye are, lass.”
He was tempering his tone now, making her feel much like a mare being gentled. His words set off a shiver down her spine. There was something so very strong about him. It was more than his muscle; it was the way he watched her, the set of his jaw as he contemplated her.
“And I have told you I must be on my way.” A man such as he understood strength, so she would meet his determination measure for measure. “Excuse me.”
She made it a few steps past him, just enough for her to feel a breath of relief moving through her, before he swept her right off her feet. She gasped and choked as he tossed her up and over his shoulder. But her face nearly caught fire with shame when he slapped one of his hands down on her bottom to keep her in place as he walked back toward their camp.